


it's just hard to process emotions with our clothes on

by emjee (MerryHeart)



Series: life is a gradual series of revelations [3]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Atonement - Freeform, Face-Fucking, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Pining while fucking, brief consideration of penitential act that could be considered self harm, but does not actually occur, sexy sexy medieval fashion trends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29212263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryHeart/pseuds/emjee
Summary: In which "Just once, to get it out of our systems" has become "oh no, I've fallen in love, who could have predicted that this would happen."
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: life is a gradual series of revelations [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2141256
Comments: 60
Kudos: 590





	it's just hard to process emotions with our clothes on

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from ["Fit Hot Guys Have Problems Too"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dep0Fq6XnWQ). Epigraph from ["Oh My God I Think I Like You"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eeb0pFdwTBg).

_“While my body’s getting ruined—like,_ really _trashed_ — _I only wanna look in your eyes.”_

“You might owe me a shoulder rub,” Yusuf says as he disentangles himself from Nicolò and the blankets on Nicolò’s mattress.

“If that’s your first full sentence after…” Nicolò gestures between them, “then either I’m losing my touch or I’ve spoiled you too much.”

“Neither. But that position was your idea, and my muscles are complaining.”

“I’d venture to say they’re the only part of you that is, given how your prick responded to—”

“Yes, yes, you’re extremely competent in bed, Nicolò, I’ve known this for years now.”

“ _Competent_?”

Yusuf smirks. “I wouldn’t want to spoil you too much.”

“I can’t believe I still come to you for bedsport,” Nicolò says, but it’s more teasing than anything else. Most of the barbs they trade are that way, now.

Yusuf wets two linen towels in their washbasin and passes one to Nicolò. Once they’re both clean and the towels are in the laundry pile, Yusuf climbs under the blankets on his own mattress.

He doesn’t think about sleeping roadside with Nicolò tucked against him. Doesn’t think about winter, about how when they arrived in Cordoba they pushed their mattresses together and slept by the hearth. His one thought before the sweet oblivion of sleep is that he is thoroughly fucked, in all senses of the word.

*

They reversed direction after their stay in Baghdad, moving west across the Levant and the Mediterranean. They didn’t have much of a plan, aside from helping where they could and taking enough paying jobs to make sure they could eat and pay their travel expenses. It was a roundabout sort of journey, and after a handful of years they found themselves in al-Andalus, where they’ve been for six months. Neither of them feel the inclination to move on any time soon; Cordoba suits them both.

Some things have changed over the last few years. They annoy each other less.

Some things haven’t. They’re still fucking.

It ebbed and flowed while they were on the road, depending on where they were if and if they were traveling in company. And then there was Ramadan, and Lent, and Nicolò’s taken to fasting after midsummer.

“For my sins in Jerusalem,” he told Yusuf, the only time they ever spoke of it. It was their last night in Alexandria before departing on a ship bound for Crete. They shared a bed at an inn near the harbor. In an unexpected moment of candor that Yusuf ascribed to the lateness of the hour as much as to the wine Nicolò had taken with supper, Nicolò continued, “It is a small penance. Far too small. Everything will be, because I cannot undo it. I cannot make them alive again. I am alive again and again and again and they cannot be.”

The fasting isn’t the only penance, Yusuf knows, because he’s lived at Nicolò’s side for years now. But they don’t discuss it. It is as though Nicolò lit a lamp in a dark room and allowed Yusuf to see his face for a brief, beautiful moment before extinguishing the flame.

Yusuf might not be able to see—they might not talk—but Yusuf still knows Nicolò by touch. Both metaphorically and utterly, devastatingly literally.

This wasn’t supposed to happen, Yusuf thinks, returning to his bed after salat al-fajr and, against his better judgement, rolling on his side to look at Nicolò, who is still asleep. It is late summer, and their mattresses are against opposite walls of their room. This was supposed to be simple, a basic exchange of pleasure with a traveling companion who conveniently shared his inclinations. That’s what it still _is_ , Yusuf reminds himself, no matter what treacherous thoughts have found their way into his head recently while Nicolò fucks him.

It’s Sunday, which means Nicolò leaves for church after their morning meal, and Yusuf has at least an hour to himself to indulge in some of those treacherous thoughts, among other things. He spends several minutes attempting to read a medical text he has borrowed from his employer, telling himself he’s going to spend the morning absorbed in it when what he’s actually doing is waiting to be sure Nicolò hasn’t forgotten something—the knotted rope he uses for his prayers, for instance—that he has to return for.

After what he determines to be a safe amount of time, Yusuf sets the medical treatise (of which he has not absorbed a single word) aside, and strips naked. He kneels on his mattress, braces one hand against the wall, and imagines Nicolò kneeling behind him.

 _Yusuf_ , Nicolò-in-his-mind says. _Yusuf, sweetheart._

He’s almost embarrassed at how fast he gets hard, imagining Nicolò kissing his neck and calling him by soft names. He trails a hand up his side, across his chest, thumbs at one of his nipples, pretending the touch is Nicolò’s. He slides that hand into his hair and makes a fist.

_Do you ache for me, love? I’m aching for you._

He licks his palm and begins to stroke his cock, and _God_ it’s good, it shouldn’t be this good, it should be like any other time he’s done this.

In his mind he leans his head back, tucked against Nicolò’s neck and shoulder, and closes his eyes. _That’s it, love_. _So hard for me, so warm. Let me give you this, let me show you how much I care about you, how much I love—_

The door opens.

“Fuck!” Yusuf grabs for his shirt and has it over his head before he properly registers Nicolò in the doorway.

“I can go back out,” Nicolò says. “Unless you want company.”

“That’s—” Yusuf starts, without knowing how he’ll finish the sentence. _How long were you gone?_ he wants to ask, but all he manages is, “Short sermon?”

Something about Nicolò’s expression closes. “I didn’t stay.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll go for a walk,” he says, tone suddenly far too light. “Leave you to your pleasure. Is there anything you want while I’m out?”

“Don’t,” Yusuf says, because he only has wonderfully terrible ideas these days. “Stay with me.” He pulls his shirt back off before he can re-think what he’s saying. “Join me?”

Nicolò’s hands are already undoing his belt.

“How do you want me?” he asks, once his clothes are in a pile on the floor.

 _Desperately_ , is among the many answers Yusuf can’t give, so he says, “However you want.”

Nicolò’s brow furrows briefly—usually both of them have strong opinions about what they want to do in bed—but he doesn’t ask questions, thank God.

“What about this,” he offers, sitting up against the wall at the head of Yusuf’s mattress. “Kneel up—yes, that’s right—and,” he licks his lips, “fuck my mouth.”

Yusuf swears and squeezes the base of his cock, because he needs this, needs to last long enough to properly enjoy this. He braces against the wall again and pushes the head of his prick between Nicolò’s lips. “ _Fuck._ ”

*

 _Fuck_ , Nicolò thinks, as Yusuf’s cock slips into his mouth, this wasn’t how he imagined the day going when he got up this morning, didn’t expect that he’d have Yusuf on his tongue but not the Body of Christ, and if that’s sacrilege, the Lord can add it to the list of Nicolò’s sins. It will surely be one of the lesser ones.

Nicolò lets himself be surrounded by Yusuf, pays close attention to the salt taste of him, the feel of the hair on his legs as Nicolò rubs his hands up and down Yusuf’s thighs, the sounds he makes as Nicolò swallows around him. The choked off “Ahh—” as he comes down Nicolò’s throat is immensely satisfying. It makes Nicolò feel used, in the best possible way.

Yusuf pulls out of his mouth and almost immediately falls backward, stretching his legs out in front of him and kneading what Nicolò assumes is a cramp in one of his calves. Nicolò would do it for him if he asked, but he doesn’t. For all he talks about Nicolò soothing the sore muscles they’re left with after wrecking each other, he never actually lets Nicolò do it.

Once Yusuf has massaged his leg to his satisfaction, he runs a hand up Nicolò’s leg and says, “And what about you?”

“Ah. No need to worry about me.” He catches the moment Yusuf notices that he’s still soft.

“Well, thank you for…thank you.”

Nicolò stands and begins to pull his clothes back on, hoping Yusuf won’t ask him anything.

“Nicolò.” _Damn_. “Is…are you alright?”

He pulls his tunic over his head and sits on the ground to put his chausses on, his back to Yusuf. “There is a saint, in my faith, Martino di Tours. He was a solider under Rome, for a time. He left the army with the words, ‘I am a soldier of Christ, I cannot fight.’” He fastens his belt around his waist and begins to lace up his shoes. “It is also said that he once entered a church and found he could not bring himself to approach the altar. He stayed in the farthest corner, near the west door, contemplating with horror what he had done in his time in the army.” He stands and looks at Yusuf over his shoulder. “I am going out. Would you like figs? I’m sure I could find some.”

Yusuf’s face is hard to read. Nicolò thinks he sees concern, but then again, he _wants_ to see concern. Maybe it’s just confusion that Nicolò’s so sure he can find figs—of course he can; they’re in season. “I always want figs. Thank you.”

Nicolò retrieves his purse from under his mattress and starts for the door.

“Nicolò.” He turns back to find Yusuf, mostly dressed now, sitting at the edge of the mattress. “You are…important to me.”

He swallows. This man is too good for him. “You are kind to say so.”

*

Nicolò strides through the streets of Cordoba like he has somewhere to be, when in fact all he wants is to turn around and go right back to Yusuf, fling himself down on the mattress, bury his face against Yusuf’s neck, and cry like he hasn’t since he was a child.

Summer has been a bad season for him since Jerusalem, and it only gets worse with ever year that passes. The entire first year he burned with rage, white hot fury directed at every murderous sinner who ever set out for the Holy Land, himself emphatically included. The fury was even more concentrated because he felt he could not show it to Yusuf; it was not fair to ask a man who had borne to much to bear that too, and from someone he had no reason to care about.

The anger is still there, but no longer in the foreground. In its place is anguish. Nicolò wants to suffer as he has caused others to suffer, to whip himself until this skin of his back in broken, and he hates himself for it, because it is so self-indulgent, and so self-important. Who is he, to think that his pain can be offered in recompense? He is not Christ.

 _Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi_ , he prays, _miserere nobis_.

He turns corners faster than he should, practically tears down blind alleys. It’s a miracle he hasn’t collided with someone yet.

He deserves pain, he thinks, he deserves the fires of hell. And yet he is not there, and he cannot understand it as anything other than the hand of God, which means his life must be put to use, and possibly that _deserve_ comes into it less than he thought it did, or thinks it should.

Perhaps that is what grace means. Nicolò finds it so deeply unsettling that he cannot believe the Epistles begin with _grace and peace to you_ , which is the least comforting greeting he can imagine receiving right now. He switches his prayer to the first bit of Greek he ever learned: _Kyrie eleison, christe eleison, kyrie eleison._

He finally locates a fig seller and pays the woman for a small basket. He cannot offer Yusuf much—for surely Yusuf does not want his heart, which is nevertheless Yusuf’s for the taking—but he can bring him figs.

*

Yusuf sets his pen down and rubs his temples. He’s not nearly awake enough for this, and it _entirely_ Nicolò’s fault.

First the man keeps him up half the night, in several senses of the phrase, coaxing three orgasms out of him and eventually fucking him so thoroughly that he clings to Nicolò’s shoulders like it’s the only thing that will save him from a shipwreck, and now _this_.

They currently earn their coin working for a wealthy man who lives just outside the city and is both drowning in paperwork and always in need of more day-laborers. Yusuf takes care of the paperwork; Nicolò helps with whatever needs doing around the estate. Thus far this summer Yusuf has been subjected to Nicolò working on the roof, Nicolò helping with the horses, Nicolò chopping wood, and Nicolò handling a shovel for various purposes (Yusuf has lost track of what the purposes are and he doesn’t particularly care, because he’s too busy trying not to stare at Nicolò’s ass. As though he hasn’t seen it before. As though he can’t see it, naked, more or less whenever he wants).

Yusuf was vaguely hoping that Nicolò and some of the other men who usually work around the house would be called out to the field today to help get the beginning of the wheat harvest in, but apparently Ibrahim is flush with field workers, because here Nicolò is, working within sight of the window Yusuf sits in front of, sorting through bills.

He manages to get a few things done in the morning, mostly by telling himself he’s mad at Nicolò for being the reason he got to sleep so late, but after the midday meal he makes the mistake of looking out at the workers and discovering that Nicolò has tucked his tunic up into his belt and rolled down his chausses below his knees, which means that Yusuf now has a unimpeded view of his very fine legs.

This is absurd. He knows exactly what those legs look like. Sees them all the time. Knows what they feel like wrapped around his waist, something he should not be thinking about when he has to work. And yet. Suddenly all he wants to do is stroke the backs of Nicolò’s knees, and possibly press kisses there, which has to be the most absurd thing he’s ever wanted to do to Nicolò’s body, which is saying a lot.

Maybe he’ll do it tonight anyway, absurd or no. It’s the one comfort he has where Nicolò is concerned, knowing that he can lavish his appreciation on Nicolò that way and have it accepted, even on a superficial level. He’s still smarting from yesterday. Finally worked up the courage to test the waters of how Nicolò would react to Yusuf telling him how dear he has become, and… _You are kind to say so_ , which is as much to say, _please do not embarrass yourself further_.

At least Nicolò has no opposition to Yusuf being in his bed. It would be smarter to stop bedding Nicolò, and probably kinder to his own heart, but he’s not going to. For one thing, he would have to explain why, and for another, he wants Nicolò too badly to discard whatever Nicolò offers him.

Ibrahim stops by mid-afternoon for a report, and catches Yusuf staring out the window.

“I cannot thank you enough for commending your friend to me,” he tells Yusuf. “Strong as an ox. Remarkably good with the horses.” This is true; Nicolò and horses understand each other on some level that Yusuf finds vaguely unsettling. “He is indispensable.”

That he is. Yusuf doesn’t want to think about it. He tells Ibrahim to pay the bills from his craftsmen if he ever wants his house finished.

As he packs away his writing materials, he looks out of the window once more to see Nicolò, now only in his shirt, braies, and chausses, upending a bucket of water over his head. God in heaven, his life isn’t fair.

Nicolò appears to be oblivious to the suffering he’s caused as they make their way home. “You worked hard today,” Yusuf says, steadfastly trying to ignore the way Nicolò’s soaking wet shirt clings to his shoulders.

“Ah, what I do is not so hard,” he shrugs. His shoulders should be outlawed. “You, on the other hand—what you do takes skill.”

Yusuf wants to scream.

*

He exacts his revenge by keeping Nicolò up half the night, just to see how he likes it. The rational part of Yusuf’s brain knows that there’s no material difference between this night and the last; they’re both awake, and they’re both wrecking each other. Still. It’s the principle of the thing.

“Do you know how you look?” he asks, fucking Nicolò on his hands and knees. He wants so badly to cover one of Nicolò’s hands with his own, to lace their fingers together, and he doesn’t dare. He’s already bending their unspoken rules by talking—usually they limit themselves to _fuck_ and _yes_ and logistics. “When you spend all day outside working?” Nicolò makes a noise that could be inquisitive or could be pleasure; to be fair, Yusuf’s been buried in him for a while now. “You look like—like I don’t even know, like the best thing I’ve ever seen. You drive me mad.”

Nicolò makes a noise that is either a gasp or a sob. “Please,” he breathes. “Please.”

Yusuf wraps a hand around Nicolò’s cock and strokes him until he comes. He does not press kisses against Nicolò’s back. He does not tell Nicolò to lie still while he cleans them both up. He has never wanted to do either of those things so desperately in his life.

So when Nicolò falls asleep before he can move back to his own bed, Yusuf, his heart just a bit too tender after the day he’s had, a bit too selfish, doesn’t wake him.

*

The first thing Nicolò notices upon waking in the hour before dawn is that there are arms wrapped around him. They feel good.

They belong to Yusuf, he realizes. He is sleeping with Yusuf. He is sleeping with Yusuf and it is not winter.

Even in winter, Yusuf does not cling to him like this, curled against his back as Nicolò has seen cats curl against each other.

It has to have happened in his sleep. He must not be awake yet.

Nicolò lies as still as possible. Who knows when he’ll have this again.

*

Yusuf can’t decide if he should disentangle himself from Nicolò before Nicolò wakes up or if he should hang on for dear life and pretend to wake up after Nicolò does.

He takes his chances on the second option.

And then he feels Nicolò begin to shake.

*

It’s too much, Nicolò thinks, to be held the way he’s wanted to be held for months now, and to know it’s on accident. He feels the tears well up and begin to roll down his face before he can stop them. He wants to love, and to be loved, and it hurts so badly.

And then Yusuf’s arm tightens across his chest.

“Nicolò?”

He should sit up, move away, apologize. He only manages to do one of those things.

“I’m sorry. I fell asleep without realizing.”

“It’s alright.” Surely Yusuf can feel him shaking. “Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

He sniffs. “You call you own your brother in arms a liar?” He can’t help it; his mind is back in Aleppo, stuck on _I’m burning for you_.

“I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“There is.” He shudders. “And it isn’t fair that I’ve been keeping it from you.”

Yusuf takes a shaking breath in, and lets it out slowly. “Will you tell me?”

The tears are coming faster now; he hates it, hates that he can’t stop, it’s been so long since he cried. “Do you remember,” he says, “in Aleppo. You said—that you…burned, for me, that it was like you were ill?”

Yusuf makes a choked sound. “I do.”

Nicolò wishes he could see Yusuf’s face, but also knows that he could never confess this if they were facing each other. “I am so sick, Yusuf. I am sick with love for you. I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to, but it’s how you are, you see, you’re so easy to love, so easy to fall in love with, because you’re the best man I’ve ever met, and if you want me to leave you’re going to have to tell me, and I’ll do it without hesitation, but I’m afraid I cannot do it of my own volition.” His voice is a whisper, now; he is close to outright sobs.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf murmurs, surely too soft for what Nicolò has just told him, his embrace far too secure when he should be pushing Nicolò away. “Nicolò, my heart, will you look at me?”

_My heart?_

*

Nicolò turns in his arms; his face looks as ashen as Yusuf’s feels.

“Why would you leave me?” Yusuf asks.

Nicolò’s brows draw together. “I cannot impose on you, Yusuf. It is not fair to inflict love on someone who does not want it.”

“Nicolò. Look at me.” Nicolò obliges. His pale eyes are still strange, and they are Yusuf’s favorite eyes in all the world. “Your love could never be an affliction.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Is it so unreasonable to believe I might return your love?”

Nicolò blinks. “Yes?”

“Then you had better start believing unreasonable things.”

Nicolò blinks again, and then he throws himself at Yusuf, which is impressive given that there’s very little space between them to begin with, and then Yusuf is on his back and their arms are wrapped around each other and he can feel tears running down into his hair.

They stay like that for a very long time, clinging to each other and gently rocking back and forth.

“I did not think,” Yusuf finally says, “that you felt as I did.”

“How could I not?” Nicolò asks, drawing his head up just enough to look at Yusuf. He traces a finger down the line of Yusuf’s nose. “You are the best of men, I meant that.”

“I knew you were fond of my companionship. And of sharing my bed,” he can’t help adding. “But that is not the same, and it’s not fair to assume.”

“I’ve loved you for longer than I think I know. I don’t think I could say when it began.”

“Nor I. But I love you, with a surety that terrified me when I first realized.”

“I’m worried I don’t deserve it.”

“Is love about deserving?”

Nicolò presses his face against Yusuf’s neck, and Yusuf buries a hand in Nicolò’s hair and cradles the back of his head. “You know,” Nicolò says, “I’ve been thinking about that recently. I think in some ways, the answer is no. But then the question is, what is it about?”

“Have you thought about that too?” He feels Nicolò nod.

“I would die for you,” Nicolò says, “and I will, should you need me to, over and over again—”

“Not something every lover can say.”

“No.” There’s a trace of a smile in his voice, thank God. “But I would much rather live for you, Yusuf.”

Tears spring to Yusuf’s eyes again, just like that. “Come here,” he whispers, and Nicolò lifts his head. “I would much rather live for you, too.”

*

It is deeply unfair that they have to go about their business for the rest of the day instead of staying in bed, and Yusuf heartily resents the accounts he spends the day checking, but he is much more charitably inclined towards Nicolò’s bare legs than he was the day before.

Nicolò, incidentally, manages to shed his tunic immediately after the midday meal.

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” Yusuf accuses him that evening.

“I wanted to give you something to look forward to. You should have seen the look on your face every time you looked up from those accounts, you were so disgruntled.”

“Hang the accounts,” Yusuf says. He pushes Nicolò down onto the mattresses—now dragged together—and strips off his chausses. “The things I want to do to the backs of your knees…”

“That’s not one I’ve heard before.”

*

“Uhnn, Nicolò—”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Yusuf braces one hand on the wall and tips his head back to rest in the curve of Nicolò’s neck. Nicolò presses a kiss to Yusuf’s throat and continues to stroke him, hand slick, twisting his wrist every so often in a way that drives Yusuf mad. His other arm is wrapped around Yusuf’s chest.

“That’s it, Yusuf, you know I love hearing the noises you make when you come, get my hand wet, my love, fuck, it feels good when you pull my hair like that—”

Yusuf comes so hard that it takes several minutes for his ears to stop ringing.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he says, once they’re both cleaned up and wrapped in the same blanket. “But that was. Very good.”

“Extremely good,” Nicolò agrees.

“Possibly better?”

“I think definitely better.”

“Hm.” He presses a kiss to Nicolò’s temple. “Nicolò, my heart?”

“Yes, beloved?”

“I am very glad we were foolish enough to think we would only sleep together once, and then foolish enough to keep sleeping together.”

Nicolò snorts, and then they’re both laughing, the last vestiges of trepidation and worry fleeing their bodies as they cling to each other, chests heaving.

They both sleep better than they have in years.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [this brilliant post by vrabia](https://vrabia.tumblr.com/post/635062792935899136/regrettably-under-explored-scenario-all-the-times). 
> 
> Please see [this glorious post by luminarai feat. werebearbearbar](https://luminarai.tumblr.com/post/642231234353823744/emjee-werebearbearbar-luminarai-psst-the) for a visual of that saucy medieval knee action Nicky's got going on. 
> 
> I love to hear from you! Come chat in the comments or on The Tumblr where I am also @emjee.


End file.
